Renata answers carefully.
“We did not convince her,” she says.
Valentina blurts the truth like a confession wrapped in sparkles.
“We maybe told her Dad said it was okay,” she says quickly. “Which he will say when he finds out it worked.”
You raise your eyebrows.
“Worked?” you repeat.
Lucía smiles, showing a tiny gap in her teeth, and says the sentence that lands softly but deep.
“Our plan so Dad does not quit being happy.”
For a moment, you forget the café around you. You forget the empty chair, the late stranger, the whole concept of a blind date.
You see three small faces looking at you as if you are not just a woman at a table, but a possibility.
You lean back, studying them, trying to keep your heart from making any promises it cannot keep.
“Why is it so important?” you ask gently. “Why all this?”
The girls go quiet. Their confidence dims into something tender.
Valentina speaks first, voice lower.
“Because Dad has been sad for a long time,” she says. “He thinks we do not notice. But we notice.”
Renata looks down at her hands.
“He smiles with us,” she says. “But when he thinks we are not watching, he looks alone.”
Your throat tightens because you recognize that look. You have worn it too.
Lucía continues, almost matter-of-fact, like this is the weather of their home.
“He does everything,” she says. “Breakfast, homework, stories at bedtime.” She pauses. “He is the best dad. But he never does anything for him.”
Renata adds, softer, “Grandma says he is scared.”
You inhale slowly.
“Scared of what?” you ask.
Valentina answers like it is obvious.
“Of getting hurt again.”
The missing piece slides into place with a quiet click.
You choose your words carefully, because you do not want to pry into wounds belonging to children.
